


Fragility

by Hexiva



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mortality, Plague, Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-20 12:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexiva/pseuds/Hexiva
Summary: Q suddenly becomes very, very concerned about Picard's health, hovering over him and fretting every time he so much as stubs his toe. Picard finds this unbelievably obnoxious, but he doesn't have much time to dwell on it, because the Enterprise is on a mission to investigate a distress call. What Picard finds there will make Q's concerns deadly serious.





	Fragility

**Author's Note:**

> Before I begin, I should make some acknowledgements. First of all, [Alara J. Rogers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaraJRogers/pseuds/Alara%20J%20Rogers) was kind enough to beta-read this fic for me. Secondly, the scene in which Q reveals his true motives owes a lot to several Q/Picard fics, including Alara's [Lovers and Angels,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/15780) Astolat's [Accidental,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/638895) and a more recent WIP which I'm really enjoying, [Interdimensional Shore Leave,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11949291/chapters/27015471) by Omim. I thought my scene was unique enough not to require prior permission from Astolat, Alara, or Omim, but I felt like the influences are obvious enough to deserve acknowledging.

_Captain’s Log, Stardate 43570.1. We are responding to a distress call from Starfleet space station Providence. The distress call provided no details, and Providence has not responded to any further messages. As the nearest Starfleet vessel, we have been tasked with performing a welfare check. Our chief science officer, Data, has taken a leave of absence to perform routine maintenance, and we will be picking him up on our next visit to that port. With that exception, our crew is functioning at peak efficiency._

“Providence has been in orbit around Belari II for three years now without incident,” Geordi La Forge said. “Belari II is mostly uninhabited - some plant life and microscopic animal life, but no sentient life forms.”

“Seems like a safe enough posting,” Riker commented.

“Not _that_ safe, I guess,” La Forge said.

“I suppose we’ll find out when we get there,” Picard said, philosophically. They could see the planet and the space station approaching on the viewscreen. “Initiate contact,” he ordered.

“Aye AYE, CAPTAIN, SIR!” answered the communications officer.

Picard frowned, and turned towards the communications officer, whose back was turned to him. All he could see of the man was his curly brown hair, over the edge of the chair.

“How exactly do you initiate contact on one of these primitive viewscreens? I’m used to telepathic communications. Visual communication is terribly obsolete.”

Worf marched up, grabbed the back of the chair, and spun it forcefully around, revealing, the smug, smiling visage of Q.

Picard felt a pounding headache suddenly creep into his skull. _Not this again,_ he thought. Worf moved to throw Q out of his chair, and Picard hurriedly lifted a hand to stop him. He didn’t want Worf to wind up in the infirmary being treated for hypothermia.

“Q,” he said grimly. “What do you want this time?”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Q said, mock offended. “I’m hurt, _mon capitaine_. Can’t I ever just drop in to see a dear friend of mine?”

“We’re not friends, Q,” Picard said, flatly.

Q gripped his chest melodramatically. “You wound me to the core, Jean-Luc! What have I ever done to prompt such coldness?”

“Do you want that alphabetically, or in chronological order?” Riker asked, grimly. “Because either way, we’re gonna be here for awhile.”

Q pointed at Riker. “See, this one has a sense of humor, Jean-Luc. You could stand to learn from him.”

“What did you do with Ensign Carter?” Picard demanded.

“Oh, nothing much, just sent him back to his quarters for a nap. He’ll live.”

“And what exactly do you plan on doing here that necessitated Ensign Carter being out of the way?” Picard asked.

Q looked at Picard, and then at the chair he was sitting in, and then back at Picard, with an expression that suggested he thought Picard must be an idiot. “Sitting in his chair. _Obviously._ I know one of your little crew is blind, but what excuse do the _rest_ of you have?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Picard said. “What are you planning, Q?”

“Nothing!” Q threw up his hands. “I’m just here visiting. Honestly, you humans are so _suspicious.”_

“You’ve given us plenty of reason to be suspicious, Q,” Riker pointed out.

Q waved this off. “I’ve always been the picture of honesty.”

Riker opened his mouth and found he couldn’t even formulate a response to that particular piece of blatant fabrication. He gave Q a disbelieving look.

“I have a mission to complete, Q,” Picard said. “Either tell me what you want or get off my ship.”

“Every minute you spend interrogating me is a minute you’re not completing that mission, Jean-Luc. Maybe you should get back to that. I’m not going anywhere.”

Picard sighed and massaged his temples. As much as he hated it, Q was right - if that distress call was genuine, he simply didn’t have time to deal with whatever game Q was playing. “Mr. Riker, get the _Providence_ on the viewscreen, please.”

Riker stood and leaned over into Q’s station, giving the entity a glare before pulling up a communications link to the _Providence._ “They’re still not responding,” Riker said after a moment.

“You know, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result,” Q commented cheerfully.

“Very well. Form an away team and beam over to the _Providence,_ Commander,” Picard said, doing his best to ignore Q. “Take Mr. Worf with you in case of trouble.”

“Gladly, sir,” Worf said, giving Q a sidelong glare.

While the away team beamed over, Picard got up to check that the weapons systems were in operation. He didn’t like not knowing exactly what they were facing here, and Q’s presence made him nervous. But as he did, he tripped slightly, and stumbled -

And Q was suddenly by his side, grabbing his arms and pulling his upright. Picard’s eyes widened and he reflexively shoved Q away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Keep your hands off me!”

Q reached out again to grab Picard’s arm, as if he was still afraid Picard would fall. “You _fell,”_ he said. “Do you know how dangerous that can be for a human? Untold _billions_ of humans have died in falls. Did you know it only takes 2,300 N of force to shatter your puny human skulls? It’s ridiculous!”

“I assure you,” Picard said, caustically, “I don’t need to be protected from a fatal fall _in my own bridge,_ least of all by you, Q.”

“Well, who else is going to do it?” Q gestured wildly around to the other mortals on the bridge. “This crew of misbegotten apes? I don’t think so.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of _myself,_ Q!”

“Stumbling around like that? I don’t believe you!”

Picard massaged his temples. “Even by your standards, Q, this is ridiculous.”

The console in front of Q beeped. Q looked at it like a strange animal. “Why is it doing that?” he asked no one in particular.

La Forge leaned over his shoulder to look at the screen. “Incoming call from the away team, Captain,” he said.

“On screen,” Picard said.

La Forge elbowed Q out of the way and brought the message up on the screen.

“It’s not good news, Captain,” Riker said, his face solemn. “We haven’t found any survivors so far. Just dead bodies. No signs of violence or trauma - looks like they just keeled over and died.”

Picard frowned. “That may be the sign of some sort of environmental toxin.”

“I’m going to look for the Captain’s logs, sir,” Riker said.

“No, Commander Riker, if the cause of death is an environmental toxin, it may still be present. Beam back aboard the Enterprise until we can prepare hazmat gear.”

“All right, sir. Preparing to be beamed out.”

“A mystery!” Q said, gleefully. “I know how much you love _those, mon capitaine!”_

Picard rounded on Q. “If this is _your_ doing, Q - ”

“Oh, no,” Q said, sneering. “I would never bother to set up something this simple. Lot of dead bodies, boo-hoo, where’s the fun in that? No, Captain, this may come as a surprise to you, but sometimes . . . bad things happen in the universe . . . that I _didn’t_ do.” He pronounced these last words as if talking to a particularly stupid child.

“Then what are you _doing_ here, Q?” Picard demanded.

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed! Clearly, you can’t manage it on your own.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself.” Q shrugged and leaned up against the wall, then crossed his legs so that he was floating in midair, halfway up the wall.

It was some time before Riker and Worf could be outfitted with hazmat teams and sent back in to search for survivors and clues. Q hung out on the bridge the entire time, making snide comments and sitting on delicate equipment. Picard’s headache developed into a full-blown migraine.

Picard left the bridge for his ready room for a few moments, massaging his temples and wincing in pain. The only other time he had had to spend this much time in Q’s company was the time Q had kidnapped him, and he had been too frightened by Q’s behavior to muster his usual level of irritation. He knew the safety he felt being on his bridge, surrounded by his crewmembers, was an illusion - that Q could and would do whatever he wanted to, regardless of where Picard was - but it made Q seem much less terrifying and much more obnoxious.

“Is something wrong with your head, Jean-Luc?” Picard whipped around to find Q in his ready room, hovering over him. “A concussion?” Q grabbed him by the chin and stared into his eyes. “Your pupils aren’t dilated. That’s what happens to humans, right?”

Picard tore Q’s hand away from his chin. “I didn’t hit my head, Q!”

“Hitting is only the beginning of the things that can happen to a human head! Did you know that a headache can be a sign of an arterial tear? Meningitis? _A brain tumor?”_ Q grabbed Picard’s head with both hands. “Hmmm . . . no tumors . . . no inflammation . . . ahh, it’s a tension headache.” He released Picard’s head and patted him on the back. “You know, you should try to relax more. Stress can shorten a human’s lifespan, you know.”

“I _do_ know, Q, I’ve been a human for nearly fifty years!”

“Yes, that’s another problem. You humans don’t live _nearly_ long enough. You should work on that.”

Picard gritted his teeth and stormed back out onto the bridge. Was it his imagination, or was Q being more annoying than usual?

“Hey, wait!” There was a flash of light, and Q appeared in his path. “I can fix that for you, you know.” He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the pressure in Picard’s head vanished, and his shoulders involuntarily relaxed. His irritation didn’t go away, but it seemed as of all of the accumulated physical symptoms of tension had faded suddenly.

Picard scowled. “I don’t need your powers to deal with a headache, Q, and I don’t appreciate you trying to manipulate my brain in this way.”

“I didn’t manipulate your brain!” Q protested. “Just your stress hormones. You had too many of them. I just calmed you down a little. It’ll extend your lifespan, believe me!”

“What would calm me down, Q, is having you _off my ship.”_

“Don’t be silly. If I weren’t here, how would I know if you tripped and fell and broke your neck? You should thank me, really. I’m here in case of any accidents.”

“Why are you suddenly acting all concerned for the Captain’s health?” Riker demanded. “You didn’t seem to care so much when you tossed us into the Borg’s path.”

Q waved it off. “That wasn’t _serious,_ Picard.”

“And a headache is?” Picard snapped. “I don’t have time for this, Q! Do you have any idea how many people are dead?”

“An infinite number of people, _mon capitaine,_ the vast majority of whom I don’t care one iota about.”

“People _on this station,_ Q. And I’m still not convinced you don’t have something to do with that.”

“I told you, Jean-Luc, I don’t have any particular interest in indiscriminately killing humans. I don’t care whether ninety-nine point nine nine nine etcetera percent of your species lives or dies, and I certainly don’t care enough to go around actively killing them. It would be like sitting around smashing ants all day.”

“Captain,” La Forge said. “Incoming communication from Commander Riker.”

“On screen,” Picard ordered.

Riker and Worf appeared on the viewscreen, both clad in hazmat gear. “More bad news, sir,” Riker said. “We found their logs, and it appears that the cause of death wasn’t just an environmental toxin - it was a virus.”

Q gave a stifled laugh. Picard turned sharply on him. “And what exactly do you find funny about this, Q?” he snapped.

“You’ve made a mistake, _mon capitaine,”_ Q said, confirming the sinking feeling in Picard’s gut. “Your little minions have already been exposed to whatever killed all those people you’re so concerned about. And worse - when you sent them back for hazmat gear, you exposed the rest of your ship, too.”

Picard hit his communicator. “Picard to medical bay,” he said, urgently. “Prepare for full-scale quarantine procedures. Find everyone Commander Riker and Mr. Worf came into contact with after returning from the _Providence_ and quarantine them.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Beverly Crusher’s voice. “Sir - what’s happened?”

Picard relayed what little information they had to Dr. Crusher, one eye on Q, who seemed to find this whole matter very amusing.

“It’s too late,” Q said. “That virus is spreading through your ship already. You’ve doomed your whole crew, Picard.”

Picard went cold. “No,” he said, flatly.

“Yes!” Q gave a nasty little giggle. “I _did_ warn you, Picard. Human bodies _are_ so very fragile!”

“Get off my ship, Q!” Picard snapped, the only response he could possibly give.

“No,” Q said, smirking.

Dr. Crusher contacted the bridge. “Captain, I’m sending the quarantine procedures to you for review, along with what information Commander Riker was able to uncover about the virus.”

“Acknowledged, Doctor,” Picard said, taking his seat in the center of the bridge. He couldn’t afford to blame himself for his choices. There was too much work to be done, and so he pushed down the cold panic.

The symptoms of the virus appeared to be mostly neurological in nature, thus causing the strange lack of physical trauma which had led Picard, at first, to think of poison gas or some other horror of the 21st century. The first symptom was uncontrollable shivering, followed by visual anomalies and seizures, finally ending in total shutdown of the nervous system.

Commander Riker was the first to start shaking. Picard had expected it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to see his first officer that way. Worf’s Klingon physiology appeared more resistant - by the time his symptoms appeared, Picard already knew that the quarantine had failed, after several ensigns reported to sickbay with uncontrollable shaking.

“I’m doing my best to limit the spread of the disease, but I don’t have much in the way of good news for you, Captain,” Dr. Crusher said somberly. “The quarantine procedures were too little, too late, and the doctor’s logs aboard the _Providence_ report a 100% fatality rate from this virus.”

Picard swallowed. “Then our first priority must be to seek out a cure. If nothing else, perhaps we can prevent any others from dying from this malady in the future.”

Dr. Crusher nodded. “I’ve started treating them with broad-spectrum antiviral drugs - there seems to be some improvement, or at least a delay of the progression. Any disease that lives in the nervous system can be very difficult to treat, Captain.”

“Do your best, Dr. Crusher,” Picard said, and saluted. As he did, Dr. Crusher’s sharp eyes caught a shiver in his hand.

“Show me your hands, Captain Picard,” she ordered.

With a sense of dread, Picard did. The shake running through them, although slight, was evident.

“What?” said Q, springing up from where he had been lounging against the wall. “Oh, no. No no no no. You can’t be infected, Picard.” He darted over and grabbed Picard’s hands, examining them, and then grabbing his face with both hands, tilting it up to the light so that he could peer into Picard’s enraged eyes. “You _are._ Well, that won’t do.” He lifted his fingers, about to snap.

Picard grabbed his hand. “No,” he said. “No using your powers to fix this, Q. Whatever you’re planning, we don’t need your help. It always comes with a cost.”

Q raised his eyebrows, apparently unamused. “So suspicious, _mon capitaine._ Do you treat everyone who tries to help you like this?”

“No, just the ones who can’t be trusted, Q.”

Q shrugged. “Have it your way.” He snapped the fingers on his other hand, and two crewmembers on the bridge crumpled to the ground, shaking and seizing. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, then perhaps your little pets should suffer for it,” he said, his eyes glittering. “If you die, Captain, I have no reason not to kill the rest of these insignificant little monkeys along with you.”

“Don’t do this, Q,” Picard said, his heart pounding. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is?”

“No,” Q said. “I want you to accept my help.” He snapped his fingers again, and another two crewmembers gasped and fell to the ground. “I can keep doing this all day, Picard.”

Picard’s hands clenched into fists. “All right,” he snapped. “Do it. Do whatever you want to me, but don’t touch my crew.”

Q smiled widely. “Thank you, _mon capitaine.”_ He snapped his fingers, and Picard felt a shaking, a weakness in his very nerves that he hadn’t even been fully aware of, suddenly vanish. The other crewmembers got to their feet slowly, glaring at Q.

Picard breathed a sigh of relief, and shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he realized that Q was wearing a nearly identical expression of relief.

“Why do you care, Q?” Picard asked. “You said that you didn’t care if humans lived or died. Why are you so concerned about me? Does the Q Continuum have some plan for me?”

Q gave him a look. “Arrogant as always, Captain. The Continuum couldn’t care less about you.”

“But _you_ care,” Picard said.

Q scowled at him, and, without warning, snapped his fingers and disappeared.

Picard stared at the space where he’d been. _What is he up to?_ he asked himself. But he simply had no way of knowing.

There was nothing he could do to aid Dr. Crusher’s attempts to cure the disease, so instead he opted to retire to his quarters for the night - perhaps a better solution would present itself when he’d had some sleep. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _we’re not doomed yet._

Back in his quarters, he got dinner from the replicator. He didn’t have much of an appetite, his stomach still twisted up into knots, but he knew he needed to stay alert and healthy if he was to do any good. The food tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He reached out for his customary glass of wine, to wash it down - and was stopped by a bright flash of light.

“What are you doing?! That’s _poisonous_ to humans!” Q grabbed the wine glass out of his hand, spilling most of it in the process.

“It’s _wine,_ Q!” Picard snapped, jumping to his feet.

“It’s toxic to humans! It can cause slurred speech, poor judgement, nausea, vomiting, coma, even _death!”_ Q waved the glass excitably.

“One glass of wine is not going to get me falling-down drunk, Q!”

“Oh, sure, it’s just a _little_ poison. Your judgement is already poor enough _without_ the alcohol.”

“Oh, for God’s sake - ” Picard put his head into his hands. “What _is_ this, Q? You act like I’m about to keel over and die at any moment!”

“You might!” Q protested. “Look at you, you humans are so _fragile._ So many things can go wrong. Even so lesser an entity as _Data_ could break every bone in your human bodies without breaking a sweat.”

“Why do you _care,_ Q? Surely you must have known humans were mortal before. What is suddenly so different?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I just woke up one morning and thought to myself, I should go ruin Picard’s day.” Q waved a hand expansively. “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Picard said. “I want an _answer,_ Q. What is this about? Why are you doing this _now?”_

Q scowled, and whipped around to stare out the window, his back to Picard. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your tiny human brain can’t even fathom the motives of an entity such as myself?”

“No,” Picard said. “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to change the subject.”

Q crossed his arms. “All right. You want the truth? You want to know why I’m concerned about your life, even though I’ve never given a damn about any mortal before? It’s because I’ve never been _in love_ with a mortal before, you stupid, pea-brained ape!”

There was a silence. Picard stared at Q, at a loss for words.

“I’m in love with a fragile, hairless monkey with the lifespan of a mayfly. It’s the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me!” Q gestured dramatically.

“That’s what all this is?” Picard asked, in disbelief. “You’re telling me that you’ve been hovering over me playing nursemaid because you’re in _love_ with me?”

“Yes!” Q threw his hands up in dismay.

Picard felt two simultaneous emotions well up in him - sympathy, and anger. Anger quickly won out. “This isn’t _love,_ Q! To love someone, truly love someone, you have to treat them like an equal! And you’ve never treated me as anything but a plaything!”

“I _did_ treat you as an equal!” Q shouted.

“When was that, Q?” Picard demanded. He was aware, in some distant corner of his brain, that perhaps he should be afraid. After all, the last time he had rejected Q, eighteen crewmembers had died. He knew Q was dangerous and unpredictable and unimaginably powerful. If Q wanted to press on with his twisted concept of ‘love’ for Picard, Picard would be in trouble. But he was too angry to care. He was furious that Q would dare claim something like this, after tormenting him at every opportunity and laughing at his pain. After threatening his whole species,  after kidnapping him, after throwing him to the Borg. “When you were kidnapping me, or when you were calling me a monkey?!”

“When I killed you!” Q shouted back, hands balled into fists at his side in a very human display of frustration.

Picard stopped, and stared blankly at Q.

“I killed you,” Q said, taking a deep breath. “And then I turned back time.”

“When did this happen?” Picard asked, carefully. He had a sense of teetering on the tip of some precipice, of the necessity of saying exactly the right thing in this moment.

“It never happened, now. But - just before you left for the _Providence._ ” Q grabbed a chair and slumped into it. “I appeared to you. I asked for a truce. I didn’t tell you I was in love with you, of course - but I offered you an olive branch. I said I’d take you anywhere in the universe, show you anything you’d like. I appealed to your love of exploration. You didn’t trust me, not yet, but I promised that no one would be harmed, and eventually curiosity won out. And then you surprised me. You asked me to show you _me._ My real form.” He sighed. “It was a challenge. You were daring me to reveal myself, to give you a glimpse behind the curtain. And I couldn’t help but rise to the challenge. I brought you there, out into the depths of space, and I let you look up at me. Or at least, what parts of me are visible to your puny human eyes.”

“What happened?” Picard asked, fascinated despite himself.

“You were amazed. It was the first time I’ve ever seen you . . . _pleased . . ._ by anything I’ve done. You said I was . . . beautiful.” Q curled up in his chair, looking like a miserable child. “And you were beautiful too, glowing in the light from my stars and nebulas. I’ve never seen you like that before. And I - forgot myself. You seemed so brilliant, so alive, that I forgot you weren’t - ” Q gestured vaguely, as if the English language didn’t have the words he wanted. “A real person,” he finished. “A Q.”

Picard scowled, but Q continued, oblivious. “I forgot myself,” he repeated, “And I reached out to touch you with one of my - limbs, I suppose you’d call it.” He crossed his arms protectively over himself, not meeting Picard’s eyes. “And you - broke. You were _dead,_ Jean-Luc. One minute you were a person and one minute you weren’t and you were _gone.”_

“You killed me,” Picard said, quietly. It was a horrifying mental image that Q painted. “And then you regretted it.”

“I never meant to hurt you!” Q protested. “It’s not my fault you humans are so fragile.” He banged his hand against the back of the chair. “It’s like being in love with a wet paper towel.”

“And that’s why you’ve been acting like this,” Picard said, understanding dawning. “You didn’t grasp, until now, what it truly meant for me to be mortal. And when you did, you were afraid.”

“Q don’t get afraid,” Q snapped, which Picard took to be a blatant lie. “I was  - concerned.”

“Concerned for me,” Picard said. He found he pitied the entity - the terror in Q’s eyes was all too human. The fear of mortality: something every human had grown up understanding, but that Q had never had to face before. There was something almost childlike about Q’s refusal to accept mortality. “I understand. I wouldn’t have credited you with that level of - kindness, I suppose, but I appreciate the sentiment. It must be difficult for you to face the differences between your form of life and my own.”

“It is!” Q whined.

“But,” Picard said, a hint of steel in his voice, “This cannot go on, Q. I appreciate your concerns, but I cannot have you hovering over me every time I so much as stub my toe. I _am_ mortal, Q, and you must accept that. One day, I will die.”

“You don’t have to,” Q said desperately. He jumped up out of his chair and caught Picard’s hands in his own. “I can change you. I can give you the power of the Q, like I did Riker. You’d be better with it anyway. You don’t have to be a fragile little insect anymore. I can make you real.”

Picard gently extracted his hands from Q’s. “No,” he said, evenly. “I value my humanity, Q. If my life is to be short, it is all the more precious for it. I don’t _want_ to be a god or an immortal. This is who I am and this is what I want to be.”

Q scowled and shoved him away, taking a step back. “I don’t understand you at all. How can you _not_ want to live?”

“I do want to live,” Picard said. “But I don’t want to live forever.”

“What’s the difference?” Q asked, gesturing wildly. “Living for - what - a hundred years, if you’re lucky? That’s barely the blink of an eye. You might as well die now and save yourself the trouble.”

“Then let me die,” Picard said. “If that is my destiny, I will face it as I have always faced the future.”

“No!” Q snapped. “No. I won’t let you die on me. If I can’t make you immortal, at the very least I can make sure no silly human malady takes you away from me any sooner. You’re going to live to be a hundred, Picard, and beyond, if I have any say about it - and I do. Call it an experiment - we’ll see how long a human can live if they never get sick.” With a smirk that seemed as false as his human body, he snapped his fingers, and vanished.

Picard sat back down at his table and poked at his food.

He didn’t particularly want to die young, but the future Q promised him - growing old but unable to die, watching his friends and loved ones die around him, Q dogging him every step of the way and never letting him live independently - filled him with dread. What Q promised was almost as much a loss of his humanity as transmuting him into one of the Q, but piece by piece, slowly, growing weaker and more tired.

Perhaps Q would lose interest in him as he faded, allow him to die. Perhaps he would simply get bored with this game, this infatuation, and forget all about his promises.

He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on this. He had an immediate crisis on hand, one which would not wait for Q’s little games. With a heavy heart, he finished his meal and went to bed.

* * *

 

The first crewmember died the next day. He had had a weak heart, and the first seizure had triggered a heart attack. Picard watched as Dr. Crusher drew a shroud over his body, and to his horror, he noticed that her hands were shaking.

“Doctor - are you infected?” he asked.

Dr. Crusher looked up at him. “We all are,” she said, quietly. “I haven’t found a single unaffected crewmember. We’re doing triage care now - we can’t afford to care for everyone, just those worst affected.”

“If you fall ill, we will have no hope of discovering a cure,” Picard said. “I want you to put your own care at the top priority, Doctor.”

Dr. Crusher rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know how much good any of that care is doing. By and large, we’re providing palliative care. Nothing we’ve done has caused any kind of long-term improvement.”

A thought occurred to Picard. “What about a vaccine?” he asked.

“We haven’t had a single patient recover from the illness so far,” Dr. Crusher said.

“Except for me,” Picard said. “It appears Q has made me immune to this virus. If you take a blood sample - ”

“ - then I might be able to synthesize a vaccine from your blood,” Dr. Crusher finished. She took a deep breath, looking invigorated. “All right. Roll up your sleeve, Captain.”

After Dr. Crusher took her sample, Picard went to visit Riker. His second-in-command was by far the worst off of the living patients. He was thrashing around in bed, making incoherent little noises.

Picard sat by his bedside. “Riker?” he said.

Riker stared up at him, not recognizing him.

“Will?” Picard tried.

“I don’t want anymore shots,” Riker said, blurrily. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

Picard felt a pang in his chest. He reached out to squeeze Riker’s hand. “Don’t worry, Number One. One way or another, it will be over soon.”

“She’s killing me,” Riker said. “I don’t know who she is, but she hates me . . .” He pointed urgently over Picard’s shoulders. “There she is!”

Picard turned to see Dr. Crusher walking up behind him. “More bad news, Captain,” she said. “Your blood is clean of any traces of the disease, active or inactive. It’s as if you were never infected.”

Picard cursed Q’s name under his breath. “Then there’s no hope of a vaccine?” he said.

Dr. Crusher shook her head. “We’ll keep trying to treat it with antivirals,” she said. “But at this point . . . I don’t have much hope, Captain.”

A wave of despair swept Picard. “I’ll prepare a full report for Starfleet,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “If nothing else, others may learn from our mistakes. Keep working, Doctor. There may be hope yet.” But he didn’t believe it.

He retired to his ready room to write the report. It was difficult to put aside the anger and shame and regret that he felt, and put the events of the last few days into cold, calm facts. He had failed as a captain. His ship was doomed.

“Watching you is incredibly boring, you know,” said a voice out of thin air. Q appeared behind him, reading over his shoulder. “All you do is mope around and do paperwork.”

Picard stood up, fury flooding him again. “If my suffering _bores_ you, then perhaps you should _go away_ and _leave me alone.”_

“Can’t do that,” Q said. “Especially not right now. I have to keep that horrible virus out of your lungs.”

A lump formed in Picard’s throat. He forced it down. “Why spare me and not any of my crew?” he demanded. “This is _my_ fault, Q. I failed to enact quarantine measures in time. And now I am going to watch my whole crew suffer and die, because of _me,_ while I sit here as healthy as the day I was born, because of _you!”_ He reached out and grabbed Q by the shoulders. “Let me die, Q. If this ship is doomed, let me be doomed with it. I would rather go down with my ship than outlive everyone who depended on me.”

“No,” Q said, easily. “I don’t care about any of your crew. I only care about you.”

Picard let go of Q. “If you truly loved me as you claim, Q,” he said bitterly. “You wouldn’t want to see me suffer like this. But you don’t care, do you? You don’t feel any kind of empathy for me - for anyone, perhaps. You only care about me as long as I continue to amuse you.”

Q stared at him, his eyes dark and uncharacteristically serious. He strode across the ready room to Picard’s fish tank, and reached inside, his hand passing through the glass as if it wasn’t there. He grabbed one of Picard’s fish, and pulled it out, to lie gasping on his palm.

“Q, what are you doing?” Picard demanded, shocked. “Put that back! It can’t breath out of water!”

“I know,” Q said, watching the fish struggle and flop about in his palm. “It upsets you, doesn’t it? Watching it suffer? Watching it die, perhaps?”

“Yes!” Picard snapped.

“Why?” Q asked.

“Because I have _empathy,_ Q! I don’t want to see an innocent life form die for your whims!”

“But if it were another fish, you wouldn’t care,” Q said. “If you visited some primitive planet, where they didn’t have replicators yet, and they offered you a fresh fish dinner, you’d eat it, and you wouldn’t feel guilty. It’s just an animal, after all. You don’t care about _fish._ You care about _this_ fish, because it’s _yours._ It hurts you to watch it die for no reason. But if it needed to be treated by a vet - if it needed to be transferred to another tank - if, in short, you had to frighten it, make it suffer, in order to for it to survive - you would do that. It’s just an animal, it doesn’t understand that you’re only trying to help it. It can’t be allowed to die simply because of its own _stupidity.”_ With a sudden movement, he thrust the fish back into its tank. “You are an animal to me, Picard. And I love you, but I will _not_ let you die.”

“That’s not what love is,” Picard said, coldly. “You can’t love someone you don’t even perceive as a person, Q. You can’t love someone you don’t even care about. And if you did love me - if you _did_ understand that I am a person, with a right to self-determination - you would realize that what you are doing is _wrong.”_

“Who cares what an animal thinks is right or wrong?” Q said, with a shrug.

“If you think so little of me, how can you claim to love me?” Picard demanded.

Q stared back at him, his expression unreadable. And then he clicked his fingers and vanished.

Picard sat back down slowly at his desk, staring blankly at his report. As his anger faded, the helpless misery returned, and he hated himself for sitting here healthy while his crew was dying around him.

* * *

 

The next day, he woke to the news that Riker had died in the night, along with ten other crewmembers. He forced himself to keep a calm facade up throughout the hasty funerals, while inside he was dying. Riker had deserved better. He had served Picard loyally at every turn, and Picard had sent him out to die.

Selfishly, he found himself wishing Data was aboard. It was better, he knew, that Data should not have to face this. But there would have been a kind of comfort in not suffering this alone. The disease wouldn’t have affected Data.

He returned to the medbay. “Any progress, Doctor?” he asked Dr. Crusher.

“N - no, n - not yet,” Crusher managed. Her whole body was shaking, and her words were jerky and stammered. “Anti - antivirals are - p-proving ineffective - anti-epileptic - medication - slows the s-seizures but - not the n-erve damage. P-Picard - ”  Her PADD dropped out of her convulsing fingers, and she stumbled.

Picard caught her and lowered her to the ground, clinging to her as if he could prevent her from slipping away where he could not follow. “Doctor - ” he started.

“J-jean-Luc,” Crusher said, cutting him off. “My f-friend - it was - it was an honor to have served with y-you.”

“You can’t die on me yet, Beverly,” he pleaded. “Please - you’re our only hope. Hold on, Beverly, please - ”

But she was unconscious in his arms. He looked around frantically for help, but there was none. The rest of the medical staff was no better off than she was. Every man and woman about his ship was dead and dying around him, and only he was untouched.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, and fought for composure. He couldn’t find it. Tears ran from his eyes, first a few, and then a flood, as misery and guilt overtook him. He clung to Dr. Crusher’s unconscious form, helpless to do anything for her.

“You were right, Jean-Luc,” said a voice above him.

Picard’s head jerked up to glare at Q, who was sitting on one of the sickbay beds, contemplating him. “ _What,_ Q?” he shouted. “What do you _want_ from me? To see me miserable, to see me ruined? Well, you have it! Here I am! Are you _happy?”_

“No,” Q said, quietly. “No, I’m not. You were right, Jean-Luc. I _don’t_ want to see you suffer like this. It - hurts me to see you in pain.”

“Then let me die,” Picard begged. “Let me share my crew’s fate.”

“No,” Q said. “It would hurt me even more to see you die. Q aren’t _supposed_ to care about mortals, you know. Not like this. Not like I care about you. It makes a mess of everything.”

“Leave me alone, Q,” Picard said, shutting his eyes. “If you won’t let me die, at least let me grieve in peace.”

“I don’t want you to grieve,” Q said. “I think I understand now, what you were saying about empathy. The way I felt when you died - that’s how you feel now.”

“Yes,” Picard said. He didn’t open his eyes.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” Q said. “You’re better than all of them. You shouldn’t have to suffer because of them.” And then he snapped his fingers.

Dr. Crusher stirred in Picard’s arms. “Captain?” she said blearily, looking up at him. “What happened?”

Picard let go of her and stared up at Q. “You - cured her?” he asked.

“I cured all of them,” Q said. “Even the ones who died. If you’re going to tell me not to, don’t bother. I’m tired of this argument.” He crossed his arms defiantly.

Picard knew he _should_ tell Q to undo it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see his crew die in front of him. Instead, he helped Dr. Crusher to her feet. When he turned to look again, Q was gone.

* * *

 

Q didn’t appear again until the Enterprise was getting back into the normal order of things. Picard was in his ready room, writing reports, when he saw the familiar flash of light, and Q appeared standing over his desk.

“Q,” he said, and stood.

“ _Mon capitaine,”_ Q said, with a mock bow.

“I suppose I should excoriate you for interfering with the normal course of human life . . . but I can’t. Q . . . thank you. Thank you for saving my ship.”

“Well, _there’s_ something I thought I would never hear,” Q said, with some satisfaction. “And here I expected you to shout at me.”

“Thank you,” Picard repeated, and then, “But,” he added, “you cannot continue hovering over me every time I get a papercut, Q.”

“Ahh,” Q said, sarcastically. “Here comes the part where you order me off your ship.”

“No,” Picard said, shaking his head. “I owe you too much for that, now. If you want to help me, Q, you may. But only as a mortal might. You may come and go as you wish, you may warn me of anything you please, but you may not use your powers on me or my crew.”

“Why should I agree to that?” Q said. “I don’t need your permission to save your puny human life.”

“No,” Picard agreed. “But you told me you cared about me, Q. Prove it to me by respecting my wishes. By treating me like an equal, not a pet.” He reached out and took Q’s hand. “Work with me, rather than against me, for a change.”

Q stared down at Picard’s hand in his own. “But what if you die?” he asked.

“Then I die,” Picard said. “All things must come to an end, even the Q. And I would rather live my own life and die on my own feet than live my life as your pet.”

“You’re asking me to let you die, again,” Q said, quietly.

“Yes,” Picard said. “Not today, or tomorrow, or perhaps not for a very long time - as humans count time. But you fell in love with me as I am, Q, not as you would make me. You must allow me to be who and what I am.”

Q’s hand tightened around Picard’s. “I . . . will try, Jean-Luc. I can make no better promise than that.”

Picard smiled at him. “It’s a start, Q.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave a comment telling me what you thought - even if you didn't like it. I always appreciate constructive criticism.


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